


I do not live in this house

by swatkat



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Cara-centric, F/F, Post-Canon, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Four things that did not happen to Cara.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I do not live in this house

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[fic](http://swatkat24.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [fic: legend of the seeker](http://swatkat24.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20legend%20of%20the%20seeker)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** _I do not live in this house_  
 **Fandom:** Legend of the Seeker  
 **Character(s)/Pairing:** Cara/Dahlia; Cara-centric  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Summary:** _Four things that did not happen to Cara._

 **A/N:** [](http://hibernate.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**hibernate**](http://hibernate.dreamwidth.org/) is a superstar for beta-reading and hand-holding. Some of you have probably seen the first part of this [here](http://swatkat.dreamwidth.org/260292.html). Title is from Pablo Neruda, 'Waltz.'

  
1.

There is an ache in her chest, a curious hollow feeling she cannot name.

She tells herself it is nothing, and ignores the way it plagues and pesters as they make their slow, circuitous— _interminable_ , Cara thinks—way to Aydindril, amid a hundred celebrations of the Seeker's great victory over the Keeper of the Underworld. They indulge countless townspeople who wish for nothing more than to catch a glimpse of the Seeker, to thank him. They dine with rich lords and ladies who fawn over Richard and his courageous heart, and ply them with gifts they always refuse. No one speaks of Darken Rahl.

Everyone treats Cara with deference. There is that, at least.

The feeling persists.

She would chalk it up to illness, but it's not her body that betrays her. Cara knows this, as surely as she knows that she is Mord-Sith.

Her dreams at night are vivid, unsettling: there are faces she has never seen and voices she has never heard; images, broken, missing pieces of a puzzle. She wakes up and they're all gone, she forgets and cannot remember.

They stop one night at a tavern, at the earnest request of the tavern-keeper, and Cara has the dubious honor of manhandling an inebriated Zedd back to his quarters. Not one half hour ago she witnessed Kahlan do the same with Richard, pink-cheeked and smiling as Zedd roared, 'When _I_ was his age, I could drown a barrel of ale and still stand upright,' banging his own cup on the table and spilling wine all over.

It is, of course, very evident now where Richard inherits his inability to hold his drink from. Cara cannot say she is surprised.

'Watch your step,' she tells Zedd as he nearly stumbles and falls, _again_ , and Cara grips his shoulder a little harder.

'A Wizard's fate, Cara, is to play with lives,' Zedd says, 'whether we wish to or not.' The ale has made him philosophical.

'The only thing _I_ wish, Wizard, is for you to be quiet and walk faster,' Cara says, being in no mood for drunken philosophizing.

Not that Cara is ever in the mood for drunken philosophizing.

'The ancient Wizards knew what they did was true and just,' Zedd continues, blithely ignoring Cara's admonition. 'I'm not so sure, myself.'

He is muttering something inconsequential about _dark magic_ and _undoing_ when Cara all but throws him down on his bed and instructs him to rest.

A nicer person—Kahlan, certainly—would have lingered and ensured he was asleep and well. Cara is not a nice person. Cara does not wait.

Her own quarters are suffocating, her bed too soft—Cara tosses and turns until it becomes too much to bear, and then she flings away the sheets and heads downstairs and outside, ignoring yet another hopeful smile from the tavern-keeper's daughter. She is pretty— _quite_ pretty—but what Cara needs right now is some fresh air. Some time, to settle her mind.

She isn't certain how long she has been outside when she hears a sound in the dark—footsteps, someone stumbling—and whips out her agiels, prepared for a fight.

'Cara, it's me,' says a familiar voice, and Kahlan steps into view, a little sheepish.

Cara puts the agiels back in her belt, oddly disappointed. A fight, she thinks, would have been most welcome.

'I didn't mean to intrude,' Kahlan says, and then proceeds to intrude even further as she settles herself on the log beside Cara without so much as waiting for an invitation.

Cara could protest, but the company is not entirely undesirable.

'Are you all right?' Kahlan says after a moment's silence.

'Why shouldn't I be?' Cara retorts, perhaps a little harsher than she intended to. She does not mind Kahlan's company, but she could do without the intimate conversation.

There is an expression on Kahlan's face, familiar, the one that means Kahlan wishes to discuss how she feels and there's nothing Cara can do to convince her otherwise. Cara braces herself, and sure enough, Kahlan says, 'You looked a little lost.'

Cara grits her teeth and says nothing, and Kahlan continues, 'I – I've felt the same way, sometimes. After everything.' She lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. 'It's a lot to take in, and I - ' She does not finish the sentence, and looks away.

Cara knows what this is about.

'Richard is alive,' she tells Kahlan, firm. 'It's over.'

'I know,' Kahlan says. 'I know,' she repeats softly almost as if to reassure herself.  
She does not look reassured. She looks pained. She looks _lost_. It's not an expression Cara wishes to see on Kahlan's face. 'Stop thinking about it,' she says sharply.

'I will,' Kahlan says. 'In some time.'

Cara understands.

Kahlan's smile when she looks at Cara is melancholy, and there's that cursed feeling again, furious, all-consuming, gripping Cara's chest with an iron fist until she finds it hard to breathe.

Kahlan gave it a name: loss.

Cara stares up at the night sky and wonders what it is that she has lost.

It's nearly daybreak when they head back to the tavern.

'Try and get some sleep,' Kahlan tells Cara, laying a gentle hand on Cara's arm.

Her bed is still too soft. Her dreams, again, are vivid, unsettling. She wakes up and it's just the same—she has forgotten and cannot remember.

  
2.

After their victory over the Keeper of the Underworld, Richard solely devotes his energy to the well-being of every village in the Midlands, with the occasional small child or farm animal (or both) in need of assistance.

Of course, his immediate pre-occupation _should_ be the return of Darken Rahl and their impending journey to Aydindril, where he might be safer (or as safe as Richard can be anywhere).

Cara cannot say she is surprised. It's his favorite pastime, one that nearly threatened to overshadow their now-completed quest.

She mostly blames Zedd for it, allowing the Seeker to blossom unchecked and unsupervised in the wretched backwoods of Hartland while _he_ no doubt immersed himself in the pleasures of country liquor and cuisine. Some of it, Cara suspects, is Richard himself: incurably kind. She has resigned herself to it, and now only intervenes as and when she deems necessary.

One might say she is growing used to it.

'Here, kitty,' says the true Lord Rahl, crouching perilously on a particularly thin branch of a very large, very tall tree. 'Come here.' His smile is bright and encouraging.

Cara has seen that smile work its magic on countless people, but the animal in question appears to be immune to its charm. In fact, it appears bored out of its mind. Cara must say she is impressed.

' _Here_ , kitty,' Richard says, boldly inching ahead. The branch creaks ominously. Beside her, Kahlan winces.

'Aren't you going to help?' says the annoying brat who is the farmer's—their host—youngest son, also the owner of the cat that is responsible for Richard's present state of suspension. He eyes Cara with disdain, as though passing judgment on her for her failure to assist the Lord Rahl.

'No,' Cara says, bristling.

There was a time when she was the terror of the Midlands: parents would put errant children to sleep by narrating the tales of the many fearsome exploits of the Mord-Sith. It's astonishing what Richard's company can do even to the Mord-Sith leather. It's unacceptable.

Cara is almost growing used to it, which even more worrying. She tries not to think about it too much.

'Your Lord Rahl's compassion for helpless animals is truly remarkable,' says a warm voice in her ear, teasing.

Cara turns to face Dahlia, who is smiling, and says, 'Richard is the _true_ Lord Rahl. Mine, and yours.' Adds, in afterthought, 'His… _compassion_ is why I'm here today. As are you.'

Cara does not enjoy encouraging Richard, but there are things Dahlia must learn.

Dahlia makes a face. 'We're wasting our time,' she says, merely voicing what Cara already knows. 'Shouldn't the Wizard be able to bring the creature down with magic?'

'The Wizard is indisposed,' Cara says.

'Asleep, you mean,' Dahlia says, unimpressed, and Cara has to concede. Zedd is enjoying a pleasant post-lunch nap, and even the most powerful magic in the world would not wake him now.

It should bother her that Dahlia does this for her sake—at her suggestion—and not out of her devotion to Richard, who is the true Lord Rahl, and the rightful master of D'Hara and every Mord-Sith. A Mord-Sith's priority should be her master and not the words of a sister, even if the sister in question is Cara herself.

It is pleasing, nonetheless, to have her by their side. Cara could almost grow used to it.  


'Poke it with your sword,' Dahlia calls out, earning herself a disapproving glare from Kahlan. 'It'll come down by itself.'

Richard, of course, is in no position to draw his sword or poke the animal with it, being currently prone upon the branch in a manner most unbecoming. Cara sighs, and turns her attention to the ground, which is littered with pebbles of various sizes.

One stone: well-aimed. Another one, slightly larger in size.

That _does_ get the stupid animal to shift, as Cara hoped it would, although it has the gall to glare at Cara. It sprints across the branch and over Richard's back, and climbs down the tree with perfect ease, until it's back on ground again and twining itself about Kahlan's feet with a contented purr.

'Good thinking, Cara,' Richard says. Cara thinks he sounds a little strangled. Dahlia, meanwhile, appears inappropriately amused at the Lord Rahl's peril. The branch sways a little in the wind.

They leave the farm shortly after Richard is rescued—with Zedd's assistance, after Cara kicks him awake—and profusely fawned upon by the farmer and his wife. Richard leads the way, holding himself somewhat stiffer than usual; Cara walks a step behind everyone else, keeping an eye out for trouble that's never too far behind when Richard is around.

Working for Darken Rahl was, in many ways, far simpler, and infinitely less stressful.

Still, it is pleasing when Dahlia falls in step with her, watchful as she's always been. It is pleasing to have another Sister of the Agiel by her side, fortifying Richard's defenses. Cara could certainly grow used to it.

They camp at nightfall, and Dahlia contributes by preparing inexpert tea; offers a cup to Kahlan with a too-sweet smile, 'Tea, Mother Confessor?', knowing it will make her bristle.

There is little trust between them, which is just as well. Trust is earned, rare and precious.

It is pleasing, nonetheless, to watch their give-and-take: Dahlia, sarcastic, baiting, and Kahlan's sharp retorts. Cara can't quite explain it.

Most pleasing is when Dahlia presses Cara up against a tree at night, the bark rough against Cara's leather. 'We'll never get to Aydindril at this rate,' Dahlia murmurs between kisses. 'There's always another village that needs rescuing.'

'We'll get there,' Cara says, tugging at laces, impatient.

'Your Lord Rahl is slow, and inefficient, and naive—'

Cara puts an end to Dahlia's list of grievances—an everyday litany, now—with one swift motion, throwing her down on the ground and smiling down at her flushed face, triumphant.

It's almost like old times, but not quite. Cara finds she enjoys this just as much.

'You'll get used to it,' Cara says.

  
3.

Nostalgia is for the weak.

Like all other unacceptable weaknesses, Cara steers clear of nostalgia: maudlin self-indulgence and wallowing in the glory of _good old days_ that never were. The future is uncertain, and the past does not bear dwelling upon. And so it is not weakness that takes Cara to Stowcroft again that summer, at the end of everything. She made a promise and she wishes to keep it, and that's all there is to it.

She wears a pair of breeches and plain shirt, like a commoner; carries every one of the gifts Kahlan insists on plying her with even though it overburdens her horse and slows her down. She does, however, firmly reject Richard's well-meant but unnecessary and somewhat insulting offer to ride with her, just in case.

The fools caught her unawares the last time. 'It won't happen again,' she tells Richard, grim, and thoroughly determined.

As it turns out, word has reached Stowcroft of the Seeker's triumph over the Keeper of the Underworld, turning her into some kind of a war hero. They gawk at her when she rides through the town's busy thoroughfare, pointing and whispering; a couple even have the gall to wave.

Not so long ago, they were thirsting after her blood. Cara hasn't forgotten.

She wishes she had worn her leather instead.

Grace bursts into tears when she spots Cara hanging about awkwardly at her doorstep. 'You came!' she says, throwing her arms about Cara, smoothing down her hair and petting her cheek, all of which Cara allows, if only because her hands are both taken up by the many tokens of Kahlan's appreciation.

'I didn't think I'd see you again,' Grace sniffs. One hand comes up to tuck away an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Cara wills herself not to wince.

'I said I would come,' Cara huffs, although she doesn't mean to sound quite so cross.

'I know,' Grace says, 'I know.' She looks ready to burst into a fresh bout of tears, so Cara says, 'The Mother Confessor sends her compliments,' thrusting the ornately-carved boxes in her hand into that of her sister's, who appears puzzled at first, and then, thoroughly overwhelmed.

'We heard that you rode with them, the Seeker and the Mother Confessor. That you fought by their side,' she says, looking at Cara as though she were a wonder. 'My little Cara.'

Cara lets the sentimentality slide.

'Tell me you're not going to leave at once,' Grace says, smiling through her tears. 'I won't let you.'

Cara had every intention of doing so. It's _not_ weakness that makes her say otherwise.

  
*

  
She rues the decision soon after.

The old house is filled with warmth, memories of the sort that make maudlin the most stoic warriors. Grace busies herself in the kitchen, chopping and stirring and doing a hundred things at once while occasionally beaming at Cara, who sits on a kitchen chair, thoroughly ill at ease. It is hospitality, a simple act of kindness, but it's also something else altogether, something that leaves Cara breathless and tongue-tied. It makes her wish to run far, far away and never look back.

It was a mistake to stay.

When the fool her sister calls _husband_ attempts to make conversation, Cara barely restrains herself from responding with her agiels.

Even the children appear less fearful and more curious. Perhaps it's the absence of her leather. 'Is that an agiel?' the girl asks, peering at Cara from her mother's side, wide-eyed and full of awe.

'Yes,' Cara tells her. The girl appears duly impressed and entirely unafraid.

'Can I touch it?' she says next.

'No,' Cara says, although she was younger when she had first handled one. 'This is no weapon for a child.'

'Ella, don't bother your aunt,' Grace says gently. 'She has come a long way.'

'It's all right,' Cara says, lowering her voice in a manner that's meant to be reassuring. She's surprised to realize that she means it. The child does not shrink from weapons. It's an excellent trait in a child.

The girl—her niece—is the splitting image of Grace at that age.

'Is there a new schoolteacher in town?' Cara asks, suddenly curious.

'Yes,' Grace says. 'A Miss Shepherd.'

'Where is she from?' Cara says, her mind racing. 'How well do you know her?'

'She was born here,' Grace says, entirely too trusting for Cara's taste. 'She came back only recently. After… you left.'

'Miss Shepherd is very nice,' says the girl—Ella—shyly. 'I like her.'

'That's good,' Cara says, even as she vows to investigate.

At night, her bed is soft—too soft; the room too small, too warm, too comfortable. It's suffocating. It makes her long for open air and the hard ground. It reminds her of things she does not wish to recall, ever.

Cara stays up all night and tries not to wallow.

  
*

She leaves early the next morning, satisfied that she has kept her promise. She has fulfilled her obligation, endured cozy domesticity far longer than acceptable.

'It was nice to see you again,' her sister tells Cara. 'I've missed you.'

Cara cannot imagine why.

'You'll keep visiting?' Grace says, mournful, thrusting a pack of food into her hands.

'I'll try,' Cara says. Her chest feels odd: heavier.

She is very glad to finally ride away. The fresh air clears her head, brings her focus back upon things that matter—the small issue of one Miss Shepherd, Stowcroft's new schoolteacher.

With the news of Darken Rahl's return, the Mord-Sith would be looking to recruit and regroup. Cara does not care to leave anything to chance.

It takes little time to find out where the schoolteacher has been a staying. A small cottage, conveniently located at a distance from the more populated parts of the town. Cara finds herself almost looking forward to the meeting.

As it is, she simply kicks the door open and walks right in, startling the sole occupant of the cottage in the process. 'Are you the new schoolteacher?' Cara says.

'Yes, I— What is this? Who are you?' The schoolteacher, to her credit, appears startled and bewildered, but she does not cower.

An attractive woman, Cara notes, tall and fair, hair falling on her shoulders in waves. She is a little disheveled, as though she hasn't been awake for too long. 'I'm a friend,' Cara says. 'You can call this an investigation.'

Just an investigation, featuring some straightforward, old-fashioned interrogation: that is to say, a few pokes with an agiel in all the right places.

'You can't break in like this,' Miss Shepherd begins to say, indignant. She ends in a near-scream as Cara grabs hold of her and holds an agiel to her throat, growling, 'Who are you? Why did you come to Stowcroft?'

'What— Let go of me!'

To her credit, again, the schoolteacher attempts to wrench free of Cara's grasp. She is strong, and surprisingly skilled in self-defense for a woman of her occupation. That is to say, if she _is_ who she claims she is.

She is, of course, no match for Cara, who simply presses the agiel a little harder on the soft skin of her throat, making her scream. 'Answer my question.'

'Spirits!' says the schoolteacher, struggling to catch her breath. What happens _after that_ , however, is entirely unexpected, because she looks up at Cara with wide—beautiful—eyes and says, 'You're Cara Mason!'

Cara blinks.

Her reputation as a war hero, evidently, has reached even the schoolteacher. Or perhaps it is just an act, perhaps it is something else. A plot of some sorts. A _trap_.

'I'd know those eyes anywhere,' Miss Shepherd continues. 'I'm Dahlia. Remember?'

' _Answer my question_ ,' Cara says, gritting her teeth. 'Why did you come to Stowcroft?'  
'Stowcroft is my home,' she says simply. And then, a little urgent, 'Cara, don't you recognize me? We were in school together. We used to sit side by side.'

 _Trap_ , screams a part of Cara's mind, even as another part dredges up memories unbidden: images, worn and frayed around the edges. Their force takes her by surprise. It's like being back in the old house again, in the company of her sister and everything else she'd left behind.

'Tell me why you're here,' Cara insists, trying to clear her head. She is here on an investigation. She does not wish to _remember_.

'Cara, I don't know what you're talking about,' Dahlia says, earnest. 'I heard about Miss Cranton. I'm sorry, I truly am.'

There is something in her tone that makes Cara release her grip and take a step backward, and then another.

'We all heard the Mord-Sith took you,' Dahlia says, voice close to a whisper. 'I never thought I'd see you again.'

Cara takes a moment to collect herself. It was a mistake to come here.

'If you're lying, I'll make sure you live to regret it,' she tells Miss Shepherd—Dahlia, if she _is_ Dahlia, who... went to school with Cara and sat beside her—and turns around to leave. She does not wish to remember and she cannot help but remember, cannot help but dwell upon bygones: her usual sound judgment, one might say, is somewhat compromised.

'Wait!' Dahlia calls out. 'Cara!'

'What do you want?' Cara says, harsher than she intended.

'You're going to leave? Just like that?' Dahlia says.

'Yes,' Cara says shortly.

'Listen,' Dahlia calls out again, this time sounding almost plaintive. 'Would you like some tea?' She flashes a smile at Cara, sudden and bright, and a little shy. Cara feels her face flush, unexpected warmth pooling in her stomach. 'I was just going to make some.'

'I have to go,' Cara says.

'I once brought flowers for you,' Dahlia says, still smiling shyly. 'You sneezed the entire day after that. Do you remember?'

Cara remembers many things. This isn't how she envisioned this morning would turn out. It was a mistake to come here. It was a mistake to stay in Stowcroft. And now she finds herself entirely at a loss—it's unacceptable.

'Stay a little while, please. Finish whatever you were investigating,' Dahlia says. 'I make very good tea.' Her voice is warm, rich with promise.

Cara has every intention of turning her down, saying _no_.

'I prefer mine without milk,' is what Cara says.

4.

Childbirth is an exercise in pain.

Not all Mord-Sith bear children: with motherhood come sudden changes and countless futile inconveniences, an appalling loss of control over one's organs and limbs that is unacceptable by Mord-Sith standards.

Cara was chosen by Lord Rahl. Cara was offered a rare opportunity. The labor was long and rewarding, and Cara gave birth with Mistress Nathair's voice instructing her to 'breathe, focus on the sensation, Cara.'

'You've done well,' she told her later, when Cara lay spent and triumphant on her bed. 'I knew you would,' satisfaction written all over her face.

 _Child-rearing_ is a different sort of exercise, one that Mord-Sith have no business in partaking. Mord-Sith break their young, crush and remold them till they are no longer children but proud Sisters of the Agiel in their own right.

'You can eat this, or you can go without dinner altogether,' Cara tells the small hunched figure in front of her, rapidly running out of patience. 'Your choice.' She glances briefly at Dahlia, who shakes her head.

'Mistress Nerissa let me eat whatever I wanted,' the boy mumbles into his plate, steadfastly not looking either of them in the eye. 'I want Mistress Nerissa.'

'Mistress Nerissa is dead,' Cara snaps, 'and you're being extremely foolish.'

'I'm not hungry,' he tells her, sullen.

Cara's first instinct is to lash out, chastise the boy for his insubordination, but then Dahlia, being somewhat more patient, quickly interjects, 'Think of what you've been taught, Marcus. You have a long night ahead of you. Will an empty stomach help?' Her tone is gentle, as though speaking to a skittish horse.

Kahlan, Cara is certain, would have the unruly boy tamed in a matter of moments, with just a disarming smile and a soft word or two. Kahlan, of course, is not _here_ , and Cara won't dwell on what is not.

Nonetheless, Dahlia's attempt to reason appears to work as Marcus shakes his head slightly and picks up his spoon once more, and slowly, _slowly_ , begins to eat. And despite his protestation otherwise, finishes his food at a pace that betrays a healthy appetite.

Cara resists the urge to blurt something appropriately scathing.

'Get ready,' is all she tells the boy, who nods, obedient. 'We have to leave.'

Childish tantrums, Cara thinks, feeling somewhat weary. This is no business for Mord-Sith.

  
*

The night, one might say, is pleasant: a soft breeze, a clear sky, moonlight slipping in through a tangle of leaves and branches. It reminds her of nights spent in forests with Richard, Kahlan and Zedd. The smell of campfire and the sound of laughter and incessant chatter, as though they were out on a picnic instead of a quest to save the living world.

'Softly,' she tells the boy, for the second time that night. 'Your footsteps are louder than a herd of shadrins.'

He does possess a distressing tendency to forget himself and daydream, Cara has noted. She has spoken with Dahlia on this matter, but they are yet to figure out a way to rid him of the habit that does not involve the application of an agiel. She wonders if Richard or Kahlan would know.

Soon they reach the clearing Cara has carefully selected for the task at hand. She hands him the empty water skin and says, 'Do you remember the instructions?'

'Yes,' he says.

'Are you afraid?'

'No,' says the boy, standing very straight. Only his eyes are a little uncertain.

'Good,' Cara says. 'I'll come for you in the morning.'

The boy nods his head, solemn.

Richard would, perhaps, clap him on the back or give him a hug, urging the boy to stay safe. Cara does neither. She did not wish for this responsibility, this strange burden that has been thrust upon her, keeping her away from her true duty. It's no business for Mord–Sith, no business at all.

  
*

  
Cara perches atop a nearby tree, one that offers a convenient view of the surrounding forest. If a beast or a bandit chooses to pay a visit, Cara will know.

Marcus uncovers the hidden knife with remarkable swiftness. It was, of course, meant to be found; she has set him a simple task, one that would be considered unchallenging even by non-Mord-Sith standards. A test of nerves: a brief taste of what Cara once learned in a dank, dark room full of rats.

His speed, nonetheless, is satisfactory.

He makes his way to the spring, then, knife in hand—still too loudly, noisy enough to announce his arrival to the entire forest. Cara thinks he appears somewhat nervous as he fills the leather pouch with water, keeping an eye out for surprise visitors.

Her suspicion is confirmed when a small misstep—born out of an attempt to beat a hasty retreat—sends the boy tumbling. He falls on his back on the ground with a thud.

A small, irrational voice in Cara's head urges her to intervene, offer him assistance. She ignores the voice, watches Marcus hoist himself off the ground and towards the clearing. He moves slowly now, with some effort. Cara does not miss the way he favors his left leg.

He drags himself to a spot underneath a tree, suitably hidden amidst shrubbery, and sits down heavily, evidently in some pain.

Men, very often, have lower thresholds of pain: one of the many reasons why Mord-Sith do not train boys.

This, Cara supposes, will be another lesson.

After that, it's a long wait. The boy leans against the tree trunk and stares off into space—daydreaming, no doubt—making no attempt to light a fire.

He falls asleep after a while. Cara stays awake, watching the small figure curled at the base of a giant tree, clutching the dagger close to his heart.

  
*

  
Cara wakes the boy at dawn, allowing him a moment to rouse and gather himself. 'I fell asleep,' he says, blinking sleepily at Cara.

'I noticed,' Cara says. She takes the knife from his hand and slides it into her boot.

The boy looks sheepish. 'But I wasn't afraid,' he adds quickly, lifting his chin as though daring her to contradict his claim. Cara remains silent.

He teeters slightly when he gets on his feet, hissing in pain. His ankle is swollen. Not broken, by the looks of it, but enough to be painful and inconvenient.

'Can you walk?' Cara says.

Marcus nods, uncertain.

'Come here,' she tells him after a moment of consideration.

He shrinks from her touch, taking an almost involuntary step backward. It's foolish, exasperating, and Cara takes in a deep breath as she struggles to keep her calm.

Reasoning instead of sharp words spoken in the heat of anger. Cara is learning.

'You're injured,' she says slowly, 'There's no need to aggravate the injury. It will be easier for both of us if I carry you.' Something in his countenance makes her add, 'You've done well,' lowering her voice, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. She has often witnessed Richard reassure frightened villagers in a similar fashion. 'I knew you would,' she says.

It's perhaps not as encouraging as Richard would make it sound, but Marcus takes it well: his entire countenance brightens, and he smiles bashfully at Cara, eyes shining.

He's still just a child, one that Cara has no business attempting to raise. Mord-Sith aren't nurturing.

This time, he doesn't protest when Cara lifts him onto her back. This time, two small arms drape themselves about her neck; legs wrap securely around her torso.

Cara begins to walk. It's a pleasant morning, clear and bright. Dahlia, she knows, will be awake—if she slept at all—and waiting by the time they reach the cottage.

The boy is a surprisingly light weight on her back.

  
*  


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**Fic: I do not live in this house (Cara, Legend of the Seeker)**  



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